Warhammer Divine Throne

"Stand firm!" the Guard Commander shouted impatiently, "It’s the most tense moment now. Those Southern knights could attack at any time, we cannot afford to relax even a bit!"

"Yes, sir!" The guards silently groaned in their hearts, having no choice but to answer loudly, or else they’d face punishment.

After a while, the Guard Commander finished his delicious frog soup and remarked curiously, "Today indeed seems odd, first it’s the ever-changing weather, and we should have received messages by now from the river sentry and scouts, but we haven’t heard anything yet."

"Hasn’t the Count been out on his winter hunt a bit too long?" a guard asked in passing.

"Winter hunt? What do you lowly folks know? It’s normal for such hunts to last two or three days," the Guard Commander said disdainfully, "Don’t speculate about the Count’s actions with your ignorant guesses. Do you have a death wish?"

The guards fell silent.

Twenty minutes later, a trading caravan approached the Sharp-Top Palace along the main road, catching the guards’ attention.

The caravan was quite large, with over twenty wagons and more than forty people. The wagons were loaded with all kinds of grains and barrels of wine. The wagon wheels deeply grooved the ground. The lead human merchant wore a fine hemp garment with a bearskin coat draped over it.

The guards immediately surrounded the caravan: "Stop! Show us your passage documents!"

"We’re a caravan from the Estalia Merchant Alliance, contracted with Earl Ocasen." The human merchant produced a trade contract and passage documents stamped with Earl Ocasen’s ring seal: "According to the trade contract, we’re here delivering grain."

"Hmm," the Guard Commander took the documents and scrutinized them thoroughly.

There was no problem; Earl Ocasen indeed imported grain from the Estalia Merchant Alliance. Everyone in Sharp-Top Palace knew this, and the Guard Commander was aware that the Count had been stockpiling grain, preparing to defend Sharp-Top Palace.

But this timing is off! The Guard Commander thought this group of merchants had come at a suspicious time. How did they arrive just as the Count went out hunting?

Thinking of this, the Guard Commander still wouldn’t let the caravan pass. He signaled the guards to swarm forward: "Wait! Are you sure these wagons hold only grain?"

"Grain, vegetables, meat, and wine," the human merchant shrugged, "You don’t believe us, check for yourself."

"Go!" The Guard Commander was waiting for this. He waved his hand, and the guards swarmed in, beginning to inspect all the wagons of the caravan, opening tarps and bags, meticulously checking the wagon contents.

Fifteen minutes later, the guards reported back to the Commander one after another.

"That’s right, sir, the wagons are full of grains, vegetables, and meat!"

"Are you certain?"

"We’re certain!" dozens of guards confirmed, "The wagons really contain only grain."

Only then did the Guard Commander nod, thinking the Count indeed needed to purchase large quantities of grain. Since it was all grain, there was no issue.

He turned his attention to the last few wagons, which were loaded with many barrels of wine, each barrel nearly as tall as a person: "And what about these?"

"This is ale, sir," the human merchant replied calmly, "The Count asked us to bring extra ale."

Was there ale in the trade contract? The Guard Commander walked to the barrel, opened the lid, and was immediately greeted with the malt and beer aroma, intensely fragrant.

"Sir... maybe there’s something wrong with these ales? Should we...?" The enticing aroma overwhelmed the guards, making them drool as they asked the Guard Commander: "We should ensure it’s real ale!"

"Fools! Now’s no time to be thinking about ale all day!" the Guard Commander shouted, reddened with anger, ordering the opportunistic guards to stay back. After carefully sniffing and tasting a bit of the ale himself and finding nothing wrong, he gave the order to let them through: "Alright, you can pass, but you must lay down your weapons to enter the city. After unloading and settling the payment, you must leave immediately! No lingering in the castle!"

"Understood, you think we want to stay here?" The human merchant retorted, annoyed by the Sharp-Top guards’ pestering, "If your Count weren’t willing to pay big, who’d want to come to this ghostly place of Musillon? Do I look like a fool?"

The caravan was finally granted passage, and over twenty wagons rolled into the castle, overseen by a large group of guards.

The reputable merchants kept their word. As promised, after delivering goods and receiving many bags of coins, they promptly left with their entourage, having stayed only thirty minutes.

Before leaving, the Guard Commander counted the caravan members one by one; fifty-three people entered, fifty-three people left, all under close surveillance by the guards throughout.

Before the human merchant left, the Guard Commander even apologized explicitly: "I sincerely apologize, Estalian, we didn’t mean to trouble you on purpose; it’s just that tensions are high, the Southern people could attack at any moment, and the Count is absent..."

"I understand, as long as the money is delivered, everything’s fine..." The human merchant didn’t mind, and the caravan departed.

Back and forth, the sky gradually turned to dusk. The cautious Guard Commander ordered the castle guards never to let down their guard. He then returned to the tower to rest.

The night at Sharp-Top Palace settled into silence, the winter night’s chill biting. Most people slipped into dreams, save for a few guards patrolling with torches.

At midnight, the storage warehouse of Sharp-Top Palace, packed with supplies of grain, various vegetables, and meat, was disturbed by unusual noises.

The enormous barrels started to rattle.

The bottom of one barrel was opened, a sturdy arm extended from within, and the King of Eight Peaks, King Belgar of the Angland Clan, exhaled a deep breath, opening the barrel’s hatch: "Whew~ Alright, boys, it’s time, let’s get to work!"

"Ohoho!" Dozens of large ale barrels opened, releasing a swarm of Dwarves, mostly clad in simple armor, armed with one-handed axes or hammers. Upon hearing the king’s command, the Dwarves filed out of the barrels grumbling: "Damn it, how could Count Laine make the noble Dwarves do this!"

"Exactly, being stuffed in a barrel to sneak into the castle, it’s downright disrespectful to Dwarves!"

"So cramped, no ventilation!"

"And we can’t wear heavy armor!"

The Dwarves complained among themselves, airing their grievances.

They were none other than the Angland Oathsworn, Belgar’s personal guard.

The large barrels were crafted with a hidden compartment, concealing the Dwarves as they were smuggled into the castle. The outer part held ale, while inside, it was packed with Dwarves, explaining the extra-large barrel size.

"Alright, fellows, Laine Brothers promised two barrels of malt beer and five pounds of pork each once it’s done," Belgar stroked his beard, the King of Eight Peaks lifted his Hammer of Angland: "And they pledged to fund a significant expansion for our brewery!"

The Dwarves fell silent.

"Well, the Laine Brothers really need the Dwarves’ help, let’s give him a bit of dignity!"

"For the sake of beer and good meat, we’ll help him out this time!"

"Without Dwarves’ help, it’s just impossible, Laine Brothers are also desperate! We understand, we understand."

The Angland Oathsworn expressed the famed Dwarven generosity and prepared themselves for action.

"Harharaver, take your team to set the barracks on fire and plunge the entire castle into chaos; Slude, come with me, let’s open the gates to let in the Laine Brothers’ army." Belgar instructed the gathered Angland Oathsworn, giving orders for the Oath Guards to split into two teams, one to assault the barracks while setting fires to throw off the guards, and he led his force to attack the gate guards directly.

"Yes!"

"Excellent, mates, follow me, let’s give it all we’ve got!"